


Agent Washington's Feeling for Snow

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Affection, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Friendship, Guilt, Hallucinations, Healing, Hope, Hopeful Ending, Hot Chocolate, Imagination, Introspection, M/M, Memories, Mental Instability, Recovery, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 08, Snow, Snowball Fight, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9303164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: Church tangles mental fingers around that memory. He wraps it up like a gift in blue, a tight little box, and pushes it down into the depths of Wash’s subconscious. Deep down where it’ll be safe. Where it can’t be discarded or forgotten or mangled by self-hatred and hurt.Wash hates snow, Church wants to help, and Wash learns the true meaning ofChristmaspotentially freezing to death out of guilt.





	

“What do you mean, you don’t like snow?” Church says. “Seriously?”

The snow had fallen overnight, piling in heavy drifts around the house, deep enough at points that it’s impossible to tell where the roof ends. The charcoal dark tips of pine trees and the grey of the cliffs break the rolling humps of the snow. Atop the cliffs is a line of houses, cheap brick given grace by the white covering. Red base is a dark smear on the horizon, ant-like figures moving in and out of view.

“I just don’t,” Wash says He frowns, and it scrunches up his face in a way that Church finds adorable but he’ll never admit that out loud because then Wash might stop doing it. He turns to face Church. “Wait, when have you seen snow?”

“Uh...” Good question. “I have memories of snow?” he suggests. He remembers snowfall, being wrapped up so tightly that all that’s visible is his face. He remembers snowball fights, the thrill of cold being shoved down the back of his collar, and the sweet warmth of hot chocolate. He remembers greedily, clutching them to himself like they’ll be stolen away.

Wash’s expression is distant. Church has come to recognise it as him sorting through memories, sorting the real from whatever Epsilon had left him. He doesn’t interrupt, just leans his weight against Wash’s back, slides his arms around him, rocking back and forward on his heels until Wash is back with him. 

“I remember The MoI crashing,” Wash says. Church grimaces in sympathy. He can’t remember that, but he knows enough to know it sucked for everyone involved. His guilt and relief tangle together, a knot of bad code in his head. “I don’t like snow.”

“Guess we’ve got to change that then,” Church says, grinning. Wash gives him a look and Church clears his throat, looking every where but at his face. “I mean, we should really clear the snow from the path. Someone might break their neck.” Yeah, that’s it. Absolutely. 

Wash doesn’t look convinced by his entirely plausible reasoning, but he can’t deny that it’s a good idea. He likes plans of action more than he hates the snow and ten minutes later they’re outside, wrapped up in the heavy coats from the closet.

“Don't forget your scarf,” Church says just before Wash steps outside. 

Wash turns, frowns a little and then dips his head to let Church wrap the blindingly yellow scarf around his neck. His fingers brush the back of Wash’s neck, the neural implants. It makes Wash shiver, but he doesn’t pull away, even lets Church stroke his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s a better reaction than he used to get, when Wash would snap and snarl and resist any gesture in that direction. It was a long, slow process, but he’s healing bit by bit. They both are.

Wash tramps ahead, blue jacket and yellow scarf a soothing break in the white, snow crunching beneath his boots leaving deep impermanent imprints. Church lingers by the Frankenstein’s monster of a porch, wood and metal merging into each other, and watches Washington. 

He brandishes the shovel like a weapon, picking out a path through the shallowest of the drifts, hurling clods of snow over his shoulder. Flakes of it land on Wash’s dark hair and coppery brown skin, the colour standing out pleasantly. He’s very efficient and Church lets his mind drift to what lies beneath the coat and t-shirt; the slide of muscles and flex of hinges, the hum of nerves and constant pulse of thought.

“Get your lazy ass down here, or I will drag you,” Wash calls, the shovel slung casually against his shoulder. 

“Fuck you I’ll be there in a minute!” Church replies. He grabs the railing of the porch, bare fingers crunching in the snow, feeling it crackle and compress, and the sting of the cold. It’s a bright sensation, and he’s not sure he likes it, but it brings to mind a burst of memory, the feel of compacted snow in his hands, smoothing it down, the explosion of powder when it impacts.

Oh yes. He likes this idea.

He throws his consciousness into the base, dips into electricity and circuits, and turns the heating up a couple of degrees. He hesitates, then brushes his mind against Wash’s, the input from his ports, and turns the heating up another degree. He really doesn’t like the cold.

He blinks back in his body, flexes numbing fingers, waits for the hum of the power grid to face into the constant background noise. Then he scoops up a pile of snow, rounds it off between his palms into a perfect snowball.

“Hey, cockbite,” he calls to Wash, his face split in a grin, “look fast!”

He hurls the snowball right at Wash’s face when the man turns. It arcs gracefully overhead and lands three metres to Wash’s left. 

“Oh come on!” Church snarls. “Seriously?!”

He kicks the support of the porch which sends a small avalanche of snow down onto his head. It’s accompanied by a sound he only half recognises, a snorting, huffing sound. He looks up wide-eyed and… Wash is laughing. Doubled-up, clutching his ribs laughing. The sound is rusty from disuse, and Church loves it, loves the grooves and rumbles of it, the flecks of corrosion flaking away just for having something to laugh at. 

It’s a lot less cute and loveable when a snowball hits him right in the face. Wash snaps off a mocking salute before dashing away, and then it’s all out war.

The score, which Church is absolutely not keeping track of, is ludicrously one-sided, up until Church gives up and throws himself at Wash, dragging him down to the ground. The momentum carries them rolling down the hill until they come to rest at the bottom of it, laughing and breathless. 

“Got snow in your hair,” Church says. He brushes his fingers through where it’s clotted in Wash’s hair, starting to freeze it together into mad dark spikes.

“I’ve got snow in my everything, asshole,” Wash says.

“I might need to verify that for myself,” Church replies, leaning in so they’re nose to nose. Wash’s breath clouds between them, his lips curled into a smile. He looks happy. No, he looks at peace which is worth more than all of the fleeting happiness in the world when he’s had so little of it. 

Church kisses him gently, just a shade more than chaste. Wash’s lips are soft and warm despite the cold, and he curls his fingers just behind Church’s ear, dabs of cold pressing against his skin. Making out in a snowdrift has never exactly been on Church’s bucket list, but hey, it isn’t a bad way to go if he had to choose. 

“Mmmm no snow there,” he says finally. He pulls away and licks his lips.

“Let me up or I’ll make sure you experience it for yourself.”

“Wow, and here I was trying to be nice and warm you up,” Church says.

“If I get frostbite, it’s your fault,” Wash replies.

“Pffff, frostbite,” Church scoffs, but he offers Wash a hand up anyway.  
“I knew a kid who got frostbite once,” Wash says as they tramp back up the hill towards the base. He pauses, and gestures back out over the valley to where the village pond is, frozen over thick enough to walk on. Shadows move across it, just for a moment, childish figures playing on the ice. “It was late in the season and he fell through the ice.” Wash shakes his head and the figures dissipate. “We weren’t allowed to play there after that.”

A shiver works its way down Church’s spine. He clasps Wash’s hand in his own and speeds up like they can outrun the bad memories.

The base is toasty warm when they get in and drag off their cold weather gear, leaving their coats hanging on the coat hooks that Wash’s grandfather had carved from a lump of some kind of dark wood. Wash heads towards the kitchen, and Church trails behind, marvelling at the sight of Wash dressed in jeans and shirt and socked feet rather than armour and rage. There’s nothing burning and boiling behind a visor and Church doesn’t care if he’s got a dumb smile on his face. 

He leans in the doorway, watches Wash rummage through the cupboards, looking for- “What are you looking for?” Church asks.

“Hot chocolate,” Wash says. “My mom always made me hot chocolate when I’d been out in the snow. She keeps it in one of the cupboards but I can’t remember which.”

“The one next to the fridge,” Church says without thinking. He just knows. “Behind the spices.” 

“Right,” Wash says, a flicker of a frown on his lips for a moment, but then he turns to root through the right cupboard, and turns a moment later, triumphant, with the jar of hot chocolate mix. “Found it!”

“Told you.” Church smirks at him.

“I couldn’t remember. it’s been a long time,” Wash replies. 

“What can I say? I am just that good,” Church says. Everything in its place. The hot chocolate mix in the cupboard, and the little marshmallows kept as a treat in the high cupboard above the sink where Wash had never been able to reach alone. He can reach it now, and the hot chocolate he makes is thick and dark and creamy, a hint of almond, and fluffy marshmallows. It’s a family recipe. A personal recipe. 

Wash pushes the mug into his hands when it’s done, and the warmth pricks at the tips of his fingers. They settle on the well worn couch, the stains from every time Tucker spilled a drink or Caboose managed to set it on fire covered up with a worn hand-knitted blanket. The chocolate warms Church right to his core and he only lets go of the empty mug when Wash tugs it out of his hand, forcing him to relinquish the last of that heat.

Doesn’t matter. Wash is more than warm enough when Church curls against him, head resting against Wash’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his pulse, the sound of his breathing, the steady hum of electricity through nerves. 

“Do you still hate snow?” Church asks quietly, and he trails his fingers beneath Wash’s t-shirt, over warm skin. 

Wash sucks in a breath, releases it slowly. He feels the spike in Wash’s heart-rate. The world trembles. 

Church keeps smoothing his fingers against Wash’s back, a slow, soothing gesture until Wash can speak again.

“No,” Wash says, “Maybe it has its good points.”

Church smiles and rubs his cheek against Wash’s shirt. “S’good then, right? You can heal from this shit. It just needs time. And maybe an incredibly hot boyfriend to spend it with.”

“Oh well, if that’s what it takes I guess I’d better start looking for one.”

Wash laughs at Church’s huff and the muttering about ingratitude, and curls his fingers into Church’s hair, scratching over his scalp. Church absolutely doesn’t make a completely undignified sound of pleasure at that. Wash hears it anyway.

“You know,” Wash begins, looking around at the little living area, with the old, battered chintz armchair set in front of the hard-cornered metal framed table covered in coffee stains, “I don’t remember getting here. I don’t reme-“

Church kisses him again, stopping his words with lips and tongue and warm breath. He pulls away and rests his forehead against Wash’s. “Don’t worry about it too much, Wash.” He gives a small smile. Over Wash’s shoulder he can see the kitchen start to fade, from worn cupboards to plain plastic, to cardboard cutouts that only vaguely resemble a kitchen. Then, nothing. “Just… remember, okay?”

“Church-“ Wash says, a hint of panic in his voice. “What-“

Another shudder rocks the world, the walls crumbling, snow whirling inside before that too vanishes into nothing. Church tucks himself around Wash, presses lips against his hair, until he, too is gone.

Church feels very very cold.

The sense of Wash’s vitals flood him full force. Pounding heart, rushing hormones, the near constant low-grade headache from exhaustion and stress. For all he’s calm on the outside, in his head, Wash is torn between terror and triumph rolled up in a package of hate and spite and bitterness.

“You know Meta, why wait? Why don't you meet him, right now?”

Church throws himself outward, shapes light and wraps it around himself, fashioning armour that he doesn’t need but which feels more natural. He raises a hand in a mocking salute. “Hi there.”

And then he sees them; matching glowing sprites which hover around the Meta’s golden-dome helmet. It makes something in him lurch, the same way he’d felt a tug when he saw Delta but a hundred times stronger. 

_It’s him! Alpha! Alpha!_

Well fuck.

“You know,” Church says, tangling mental fingers around that memory of snow and hot chocolate, of calm, “I can see why you didn't want anyone else in your head. Got some pretty heavy stuff going on there. I think you need to talk to a professional.” He wraps it up like a gift in blue, a tight little box, and pushes it down into the depths of Wash’s subconscious. Deep down where it’ll be safe. Where it can’t be discarded or forgotten or mangled by self-hatred and hurt. 

“That's too bad. I just lost my job, and we have great mental health coverage.”

Church lets go of it, lets it drift and surfaces slowly, savouring that touch of Wash’s mind. That memory will still be there. He’ll find it. Some day. It’ll be there when he needs it.

He gives the mental equivalent of a stretch. “How much time do you need?”

“Whatever you can get me,” Wash says. Church feels the hesitation before he continues. It makes his chest ache. “When the E.M.P. goes off-“

“When it goes off, I'll be fine,” Church says, dredging up the last dregs of his bravado. He tilts his head, cocky to the last, and thinks of snow and remembers warmth. “It only affects computers, remember? And I, am a mother fucking ghost.”

—————

Snow has fallen overnight. It piles in heavy drifts around the survival tent, burying it deep enough that Wash has to dig his way out. It’s bitterly cold according to his HUD’s readout, and even with the armour and bodysuit, scientifically designed warmth, he swears he can feel it cutting through him. 

It’s still snowing. He can’t see the path he’d travelled along to get here, and the path ahead is just as white-blind. All he can see aside from snow is the shadows of some fir trees and the grey of rocks. It’s a bleak prospect.

He brushes as much of the snow off the side of the tent as he enough, enough to expose the orange surface and make sure that it doesn’t collapse on him in his sleep. That would be a way to go, wouldn’t it? Survive Freelancer and the Meta, only to die alone in the snow because of his own stupidity.

He aches all over, especially his ribs, and he feels exhausted from even that much. The walking the previous day had been done in fits and starts, and that had been before the snow. It’s not nearly as much ground as he’d wanted to cover, but it’s enough that he can probably stay another day until the snow lets up.

They probably won’t even miss him.

_You’re a fucking idiot._

Wash goes still, and carefully doesn’t look around. There won’t be anyone there. There won’t even be a glowing blue hologram. Just empty space and the cold. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he could do the same with his ears. It won’t do any good, he knows. Not when the voice comes from inside his own head.

_Yeah well, you’re the one imagining me. What do you expect?_

“Shut up,” Wash grits out. 

_Right, you conjure me up from the depths of your psyche, but I’m the bad guy.”_

It’s like solitary confinement all over again. Maybe his injuries are catching up with him. He doesn’t feel feverish, but if he’s this far gone, would he even notice?

_Not my fault that you summon me up during the worst possible situations. I never asked to be a guardian angel._

“I thought you were a ghost.” Oh great, he’s talking back now. That didn’t take long. Well, the line between sanity and insanity has been hopelessly blurred for a long time.

_Ghost. Angel. Better than the AI bullshit._

“How are you dead and gone and still in denial, Church?” Wash asks, resigning himself to this. it isn’t as though he has a whole lot to do right now. 

_I’m just a fragment of your messed up little mind, Church replies snidely. That kind of says something about which one of us is in denial._

“Go away, Church.” He isn’t dealing with this now. Or ever. He’d thought it was over He’d thought it was over when he left prison. He’d thought it was over when he wasn’t left to bleed out in the snow or be dragged back to jail. 

_Ding ding ding. And you don’t think that’s worth thinking about?_

He opens his eyes and rolls over to glare at Church. There’s no-one there of course. Just empty space and the light distorted by the tent and the snow. It makes his chest ache, but he pushes that feeling down as far as it’ll go. “What? The fact that I’ve obviously snapped completely? No. I don’t think it’s worth thinking about.”

Church would have huffed and rolled his eyes. It’s easy to imagine. Wash tries to avoid imagining it without much success. _About the fact that they didn’t leave you to die. Christ, denial really isn’t just a river in Egypt._

“So what?” Wash snaps. “They didn’t outright kill me. It doesn’t mean anything.” 

_I’m part of your psyche and even I can’t believe you’re this stupid._

“Then shut the fuck up!”

This has to stop. He’s arguing with a figment of his imagination. It isn’t even Epsilon, or the shadow of him etched out in circuitboard lines on his brain. This is Alpha. It’s Church.

_Damn right I am. You wouldn’t listen to Epsilon._

“I’m not listening to you either.”

_Fine. Then I’ll talk until you do._

Wash groans and closes his eyes again, squeezing them shut like that’ll do any more good than it did the first time. But he can’t shut him out, can’t escape what’s in his own head.

 _You had a base!_ Church says, and Wash can easily imagine the way he would gesture, expansive and outraged over every aspect of existence, amber-brown eyes flashing with indignance. _A nice warm base, with a nice warm bed! They probably had more food than the goddam MREs._

He feels a phantom shudder in the back of his mind and is half tempted to rip off his helmet and tear at the neural ports. It’s a strong enough feeling that his fingers twitch, but he’s had a lot of practice at resisting that urge.

_You had a place and people so why are you running away?_

“I’m not-“ Wash begins, before he remembers that Church isn’t real and that he isn’t having this argument.

Church snorts his derision anyway. _You’re running away._  
“They don’t want me there,” Wash snaps.

_They dragged you out of the fucking snow, hid you from the cops, dragged your sorry ass a few hundred miles to somewhere safe and got you medical treatment._

“That doesn’t mean they want me there! And besides…”

_Besides what?_

Wash tries to wrestle with his thoughts, unsnarl some of the tangles but it’s hard when most of his brain is one big tangle. There are parts that are clear; survival, deception, combat, the parts that he’d needed to reach at a moment’s notice, just to keep himself alive and functional. But the rest? It had always seemed like a much bigger job than he could imagine starting. Better to put it off for tomorrow, for next month, for next year. 

For never.

He thinks of Caboose waking him up with a deafening greeting, and the pancakes that he’d burnt (along with the stove and the utensils) because he wanted Wash to have breakfast. He thinks of Tucker and his dark-eyed suspicion melted into concern when he found Wash standing guard at 3am because he couldn’t sleep and couldn’t get the shadows out of his mind.

Even the Reds, taking turns to check bandages on the half-remembered trip to the base they’d settled in. Grif grudgingly sharing a candy bar and staving off the worst of the questioning because sleep is sacred. 

There’s no reason for them to do it and he can’t figure out why.

“I don’t deserve it.”

Church is silent. Wash didn’t know why he’d expected any different. He isn’t real after all. Can’t argue with yourself when you know it’s true. 

It was better for everyone if he left. Which is why he’s stuck here, halfway through a snowed-in mountain pass arguing with a fictional construct of a man he’d killed.

_Goddam drama queen._

It makes Wash give a surprised snort of laughter. It feels good. He doesn’t think he’s laughed in a long time. Church was good at that. That time he’d dragged Wash down the hill with him, rolling over and over in the snow until…

A shiver works through him and he grasps for the memory only for it to slip away like smoke through his fingers. 

_I thought you hated snow._

“I don’t hate snow,” Wash replies, but he frowns all the same. He’d hated snow when the MoI crashed, when he’d been freezing on Sidewinder, broken and confused and alone. 

He’s alone now. Suddenly the tent feels smaller, closing in on him, the weight of the snow collapsing it. He’ll be buried here, alone. He’ll die here, alone. 

And the Blues and Reds will shrug, maybe talk about that crazy Freelancer, and go on with their lives. 

A rumbling sound fills the air and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s coming from outside and it isn’t the sound of an avalanche about to bury him. It’s a deep purring rumble. The sound of a vehicle. And along with it comes voices. They’re garbled and hard to hear but recognisable. Caboose’s voice and lack of volume control would be recognisable anywhere, he thinks, and Tucker’s is less familiar but still distinctive and why are they here?

_They’re looking for you, dumbass._

“But… why?”

There’s something tickling at the back of his mind, something buried deep trying to escape. The memories bubble up sometimes, but this one feels different, gentler. 

_Does it matter? They came for you. They remembered you. They want you._

The struggling thing in his head shifts, starts to unfurl like a flower opening, slipping through his head. He swears he can smell hot chocolate and feel warm hands against his skin, or the soft scratch of a scarf. Blue coat, and yellow scarf and a warm voice.

He looks down at his armour. Caboose had even painted on the yellow accents.

He remembers warmth.

_So what are you gonna’ do about it?_

The voices are getting more distant. What happens if they leave?

No. he can’t let that happen. He grabs one of the emergency flares that he’d never intended to use, they just came with the equipment, and struggles out of the tent. The snowfall makes it hard, but he’s determined and finally he hits air. He half expects to turn around and see nothing but untouched snow, but no, no! There’s tracks there, feet and the heavy imprints of a Warthog.

He removes the cap of the flare and strikes it and it bursts to blazing life, the light reflecting off the snow and filling the air. For good measure he turns on the megaphone of his helmet and calls out to them. 

And still that memory unfurls. 

“Jesus Christ, you had Caboose worried!” Tucker says when they find him, and Wash doesn’t mention the worry he can hear in Tucker’s voice too.

“Agent Washingtub!!!” Caboose is more enthusiastic in his greeting, sweeping Wash up into a hug and spinning him around until Wash feels dizzy and a little sick but how could he ever complain when the rest of him is warmth.

“Come on,” Tucker says, “let’s get back to base. My ass is freezing. Couldn’t you have run off in better weather? We could’ve brought a picnic.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Wash replies as he climbs into the Warthog.

The drive back to base is slow going, retracing a path already half covered with fresh snow. Tucker plays awful songs on the radio and Caboose regales him with stories about his best friend Church. The stories are rambling and one-sided and very unlikely but the constant chatter eases something inside him.

The barren landscape gives way to the gentler slopes of the valley. Red base and Blue base are dark smudges on the horizon. For a moment Wash fancies that he sees houses at the top of the cliffs, and he swears he can feel warm arms wrapped around him. He remembers the feeling of snow shoved down the back of his collar, and skating figures and laughter. He remembers marshmallows hidden in a cupboard, just where they belong.

The warthog slows as they approach Blue base, and then pulls to a halt. There’s a space cleared of snow, and a path up to the door. No porch. Why would there be a porch? But it makes his heart clench for a moment anyway.  
 Tucker jumps out of the warthog and drags his helmet off, freeing his dreadlocks and shaking them out. “C’mon, let’s get inside. Found some cocoa in the cupboard,” he adds grudgingly. 

Everything goes still and silent, blurring out of existence for a moment, before returning in sharp focus; the white of the snow, the blue and teal of Caboose and Tucker’s armour, the steel grey of the base walls. Wash feels heat sting his eyes. He blinks furiously and then after a moment, drags his own helmet off. The cold pricks his cheeks and he reaches up to rub at his eyes as best he can in armour.

“Are… are you crying?” Tucker asks incredulously, and he looks around, as though expecting an attack at any moment. 

Wash shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine,” he says. “I just… remembered something.”

“Oh?” Tucker asks.

“A snowy day I spent with someone important.”

Tucker doesn’t reply but he doesn’t make fun either. He grabs Caboose’s arm and starts trying to drag him towards the base. “C’mon Caboose. Before we can’t get in.”

Wash watches them for a moment, and then pushes himself out of the warthog. A memory stops him and he looks down at the snow on the ground to one side of the path. He reaches down to grab a handful of snow, forming it into a perfect round.

“Hey Tucker,” he calls, and feels a first grin curl his lips.  “Huh?”

“Think fast!”

The snowball flies unerringly and hits Tucker in the face. He sputters, and gasps and glares, but the next moment he’s reaching down for his own snowball. “Oh, it is on!” 

When they eventually get back inside, they’re soaking wet and shivering and laughing. Tucker makes cocoa because Caboose isn’t allowed in the kitchen and considering Wash ran into the snow he doesn’t trust him with dangerous things like stoves yet. 

And sitting there, mug curled between his hands, Wash feels it again, that phantom touch. The brush of lips against his forehead, a hand through his hair. It feels like goodbye. It feels like forgiveness. It feels like healing.


End file.
